


Guilliman

by moreagaara



Series: The Emperor Revived [12]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Conversations, Blood, Blood Magic, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Conversations, Cross-Post, Cross-Posted on deviantArt, Deviates From Canon, Family Reunions, Fanfiction, Gap Filler, Gen, Healing, Injury Recovery, Literature, Mind Manipulation, Mindfuck, Originally Posted Elsewhere, Originally Posted on deviantART, Points of View, Promises, Recovery, Reunions, Science Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22609030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moreagaara/pseuds/moreagaara
Summary: Right, so, this is a semi-early piece I did after reading about Guilliman (and in particular about his freakout in the temple) on the 40k wiki, and also after having read about the bit where no one knows what Guilli and the Emperor said to each other when they finally re-met after Guilli woke back up.  And of course, since I like to fill in holes around here, I have presented my take on the subject.Peep ownership:Games Workshop:  WH40k and relatedhoholupercal:  Taizy (mom) and Crawyen (dad)me:  the writing and the Emperor's name
Series: The Emperor Revived [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1447444
Kudos: 5





	Guilliman

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so, this is a semi-early piece I did after reading about Guilliman (and in particular about his freakout in the temple) on the 40k wiki, and also after having read about the bit where no one knows what Guilli and the Emperor said to each other when they finally re-met after Guilli woke back up. And of course, since I like to fill in holes around here, I have presented my take on the subject.
> 
> Peep ownership:  
> Games Workshop: WH40k and related  
> hoholupercal: Taizy (mom) and Crawyen (dad)  
> me: the writing and the Emperor's name

Guilliman watched the progress of the battle from his flagship. Occasionally he would issue orders, depending on how their current enemy—another force of Chaos-worshippers—was reacting. It was soothing, in a way, to watch the rhythm of the battle; this he understood. This was what he had lived for ten thousand years ago, and it was his favorite part about living now.

Unfortunately, the battle was progressing so smoothly, he only needed to devote part of his attention to it. The rest of his mind could and did wander, and always circled back to the same question: _why can’t I remember mom?_ By all accounts, the first time he’d been alive—before the Imperium, before the Crusade, before Ultramar—he’d been very close to her. He would call for her over his father, Crawyen, and he would watch as she doled out the consequences to those who had hurt him or his brothers.

Yet now, whenever he tried to call up memories of her—the color of her hair, or her eyes, or the sound of her voice, just her name—there would be a flicker of memory, swiftly overwritten by the face of another. A different god of death, an Eldar-forged god of death, a being not fully born. Faintly a voice whispered in the back of his mind. _Ynnead._

His Astartes had taken some of the cultists prisoner. “Take them to the Emperor,” he ordered, not appearing or sounding distracted. Once that would have meant a long journey through the Warp to Terra, or to wherever the Emperor was stationed; now it was a short walk to the nearest temple or shrine. The local priest would call for their god, a shard of Daenus— _my brother…I don’t think it will ever not feel strange_ —would appear, and he would pass judgement. Likely he would question these cultists, and ask them why they had chosen Chaos over the Imperium. There was always a reason, and Daenus always found it, and then he would work to fix whatever problem had caused their fall. Usually he would offer to clear them of Chaos, give them different names, and send them to another planet entirely, where they could start their lives afresh…Guilliman wasn’t sure they deserved that kind of forgiveness, but he supposed his brother—his Emperor—had his reasons.

Perhaps the next time Daenus was nearby, he would ask him about that. Now, though, the battle was over, and the entire weight of his mind settled on the question. _Why can’t I remember mom?_ He closed his eyes and took a breath, ordered his captains to rest before they redeployed. The next area that required his attention was some distance away, and it would be a difficult journey. His Navigators in particular needed rest, and they took this chance gladly. Perhaps Guilliman should join them; perhaps being planetside would help him focus on something other than his lack of memory.

But even helping to rebuild what the recent battle had torn down could not stop him from worrying at the hole in his memories like a pulled tooth. He sat down near one of the temples to get his thoughts in order; his power armor gently hissed at him as he did. He forced his thoughts to turn to the day of his reawakening, the first day of this new millennium he could truly remember.

~~*~~

_He had been fighting Fulgrim. He’d gotten so close to killing him, but the four-armed snake had gotten under his guard. A poisoned blade had opened his throat, and he’d fallen to one knee, clutching his neck. Blood spurted out between his fingers, synced with his heartsbeat. Even then, he’d tried to force himself back up, to destroy his Traitor brother, but Fulgrim had laughed and fled. “See you in the Warp, brother,” he’d hissed as his form faded from the outside in. Guilliman had tried to shout something, but the blade had cut his windpipe along with his artery._

_The apothecaries had caught up to him just in time. They were trained well, and didn’t panic when they saw his wound. Instead, they’d put him in a mobile stasis field. He’d been dimly aware as they carried him back to the ship, had faintly heard them set a course for his home. Macragge. He’d wanted to tell them to take him to Terra, but time wouldn’t pass enough for speech._

_He’d woken again in a hospital. Time had passed outside his field; he heard people talking. His neck had been cleaned by someone, but they hadn’t taken the field off. He must not be healed…some instinct twitched deep within his mind, and he felt the edges of it inch slightly closer together. He tried to talk to whoever was outside his field; he didn’t need a temple, or worship. The marble was needed for homes, the adamantium and plasteel for warships, for weapons, for power armor. The time it would take to build such a structure was time not spent fighting Chaos. Didn’t they understand that?_

_He was sitting up this time. The stasis field was no longer mobile and attached to his body; it smoothly hummed around his chair in a great sphere. Multicolored light danced across the floor in front of him. He must still have not healed; instinct twitched within his mind again, and his neck closed another fraction. The effort exhausted him; he slipped away from consciousness as he saw people bowing before him…_

_He made himself wake up this time, and tried to deliberately harness the instinct he kept feeling, but it danced away from him. Even as it twitched again, even as his neck healed just a little bit more. He saw someone leaving an offering on the floor before him. He wanted to tell them not to, that he didn’t deserve that kind of worship. He had before, during the Crusade…_

_He heard fighting in the distance. Gunfire, and footsteps. Pilgrims were still coming to see him in the middle of a battle? His eyes were closed—they must have been closed this whole time, but if so, how had he seen before? And how was he seeing now? There was a Mars priest, with a large, whirring box…Cawl. He remembered Cawl. Then the box must be the armor he’d asked for, in case he fell._

_There were Eldar with him, and a woman with glowing wings. One of the Eldar was speaking…in order to live, first he must die? He admitted there was a poetry to the idea, but surely the armor he’d commissioned would be enough. And besides, he was healing; even now, he felt the telltale twitch in his mind and neck that signified his wound’s closing just a little more—_

_There was a shearing sound; something fragile above them broke. Chaos marines spilled out, and their war cries rang deafeningly in his skull. Why could he hear them so clearly when all else was dulled? Cawl’s mechanical box had risen around him, enveloping him even within the stasis field. Dimly he saw the blue flickering of his armor…and then sensation ceased._

_He didn’t know where he was, but he knew he had been here before. Something moved in the shadows just beyond where he stood. He could almost see them…he remembered faintly someone telling him how to see in this place. Knowledge started to trickle in, through a dam that had built up in his mind. He knew what the something was. He knew who they were. He reached out to where they would be when his hand got there; if he could just touch—_

_Reality flooded back to him. He stood, gripped his father’s sword. The battle he’d heard was still raging; he twisted his grip on the sword, and flames licked down its length as something gently stung his palm. He would look to see what it was later; for now, there were Traitors to kill and people to protect. Someone—no, some_ thing _, whoever they had been was long past saving now—shrieked rage and fear as they leapt at him. He barely had to think as he swung his father’s sword, slicing them neatly in two. He allowed himself a faint smile, remembering his father. “Anyone else?” the Emperor would have asked._

_The rest of the Traitors surged to meet him, and Guilliman saved his breath. He had learned from the early days of the Heresies; the first to die had to be the enemy psykers. There was one here, and he raised his fist to shoot them. The remaining berserkers died next, but not by design; Guilliman had always imagined that their screams begged for death, if they had ever been mortal. No one could truly want what had been done to them…save, perhaps, for Angron._

_The battle went on; Guilliman found his mind shifting, a part of it letting go of the soothing rhythm of attack, defend, counterattack, shoot…it wasn’t hard to tell friend from foe, even if he recognized no one. Even Cawl had twisted himself beyond recognition, but there was a distinct timbre to his mechanical voice. The loose part of his mind took stock of his surroundings, his body, itself, and his questions._

_The questions would have to wait. The immediate threat had been extinguished; now he needed to defend the fortress. The strategium was where it should be, where his Ultramarines usually built it. He let his gene-sons spread word of his return; he had work to do. He asked permission to assume command; it was granted. He spread his hands until he was comfortable, then spoke the destruction of the invading Traitors._

_Still the loose part of his mind rattled; even in this he could find no solace. Something deep within his core had been torn loose. Someone very important to him had placed it there. His father, the Emperor? No…he had merely preserved it. Someone else had given it to him. He remembered loving them dearly, but in trying to remember their face, he saw instead the face of an Eldar. The lips of the ancient face moved; he heard a name, but not the one he was trying to remember. Ynnead._

_Then he had returned to Terra, through fire and flames, through death and capture, and he had been granted an audience with the Emperor. The Custodes within the ancient throne room stood by silently, watching him only occasionally as they scanned the room for potential threats. The Golden Throne glimmered, hissed, whirred, supported his father’s corpse._

_He had closed his eyes for just a moment, and suddenly the room had gone dark. The Custodes were no longer there, and neither was the Throne. Somewhere high above him was a light that gently pulsed guidance to the galaxy; beneath it sat a man. His right arm hung limply by his side, and his left covered his eyes. He did not seem to notice Guilliman’s presence until Roboute took a step forward._

_Then he stirred and looked towards him; one eye was clearly blind, while the other took too long to focus. His father didn’t move his lips to speak._ Hello, Roboute, _he had said._ It’s…nice to see you again. __

_“How are you?” Guilliman had asked, and the Emperor had only laughed in response._

__Might as well be dead for all the good I can do here, _he had replied, and his lips had twisted into a rictus of pain and sorrow. Dimly Guilliman had heard other thoughts echo through his mind, all of them following the black humor of what the Emperor actually had said. Something in Guilliman’s breast shivered in response, tried to reach out…he forced it back._

_Whatever the shiver was, it stood a very real chance of severely hurting his father. Yet Guilliman wasn’t sure what to say now, so he sat next to his father’s echo for a while in silence. There was a tremor in the immobile right hand, and so he reached out to still it with his left. The hand was stone cold._

__It tingles when you do that…thank you, _his father commented. Another moment of silence passed._ So how’s the Imperium doing? __

_“It exists,” Guilliman had replied. He’d hesitated, tried to hold the words back. “But…we failed. We failed each other, and then we failed…them. All of them.” The words came anyway. The tapestry on Macragge had never responded. Maybe this echo of his father would. “The second we were gone, they turned back to idolatry, religion…”_

__They call me god, even though I never wanted to be one. I told them over and over again that I was just a man… _his father sighed. Cold fingers spasmed in Guilliman’s grip. Again they were silent._

_“Why do I still live, father?” Guilliman eventually asked. His father stayed silent. A bloody tear leaked out of the eye that wasn’t blind. “Why? What more do you want of me? I already gave—and look what they’ve done!” Anger had stirred in him, and he gripped the frozen hand hard. Yet his father’s reply stopped the anger cold._

__I don’t know, _he had said. Guilliman looked over at his father’s echo._ I don’t know why you still live. I don’t know why I still live, _his father repeated. His father, who had always had an answer, who had always known at least part of the truth._ Maybe it’s fate. Maybe it’s a cruel joke. Maybe we both died long ago and this is our eternal punishment. _Another blood-red tear leaked from his father’s eye._ All I wanted was to unite humanity so I could protect it. _His father’s thoughts had dropped to a whisper._ Maybe I shouldn’t have tried. Maybe I should have let us burn. Maybe I should have let Horus win. Maybe…the galaxy, the universe, would be better off without us. Without me. __

_“There’s…there’s still hope,” Guilliman had said. Even now he felt it, even with the depths of his father’s despair mixing with his own. “There has to be. We can still stop chaos.”_

__At least you think so. _Guilliman could tell his father only half believed him, was mostly humoring him. He tried to send reassurance through his grip on his father’s right hand. The hand, he remembered, that was missing on his father’s body._ Maybe if you fight…if you can purge at least some of our enemies… __

_“I can. I will.”_

__…go ahead and take the Custodians out. They could stand to have more to do than just guarding me, _his father added. Guilliman could tell there was more, that his Emperor wanted to tell him more, but didn’t know where to begin. He waited. But his father only closed his eyes, focused, and gingerly drew his right hand out of Roboute’s grasp. He had to use his left hand to guide it away from Guilliman, and into his lap. Once there, it again lay lifeless, and his father looked at Guilliman. Despair swam in his eyes, threatened to swallow him whole._ Go. Bring me hope. __

_Then the room had shifted back. Guilliman staggered with the sudden release, and one of the Custodians had reached out to steady him. They let go quickly, but not before Roboute sensed that he knew them somehow. But rather than waste his time worrying, he asked to speak with their leader. The Imperium needed him. His father needed him._

~~*~~

“And then, after all that, after centuries—almost a millennium of fighting…you woke up,” Guilliman turned his gaze on the nearest icon representing the Emperor. The man he had called father for so long, it hurt to think of him as only brother. “You told me the truth you’d hidden. You told me who I was…you introduced me to my real father.” He sighed.

The icon’s eyes shifted to look at Guilliman more directly. It didn’t move its lips; Daenus wasn’t giving enough attention to fully animate it. Just as well, since the icon only depicted his face. _Do you wish I hadn’t?_ He asked.

“Maybe. I dunno,” Guilliman let a small smile out, and Daenus smiled weakly back. He hesitated, then told his brother what he needed to tell his father. “Someone needs to tell him…and I don’t think I can.”

_…I’ll try. We might have to do it together, and he might get angry. But I’ll try._


End file.
